


(for you are my fate,my sweet)

by dianna44



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Sex, BTW that doesn't mean it's an open relationship, Comfort/Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Language of Flowers, M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Past Character Death, Poetry, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Seasonal Affective Disorder, Top Harry, Top Louis, a "vague" past on purpose, sad/sappy speeches, this is very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-05-31 13:45:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6472333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianna44/pseuds/dianna44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Harry loves a boy. He loves a boy that’s too good for him and too good for the world. He loves a boy with ocean eyes and soft hands. Harry loves a boy, which is strange, he supposes, considering how he doesn’t even love himself."</p><p>{poetry is the war on love}</p>
            </blockquote>





	(for you are my fate,my sweet)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neurtsy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurtsy/gifts).



> Hello. Can you believe I've only been working on this for less than a week?
> 
> There are some major notes to consider before reading this story.
> 
> .things are capitalized for a reason as they add emphasis to the importance of that subject to the character
> 
> .any poetry that does not have an author noted at the end is my original poetry that I created for this story alone, and I wish that you can respect my own ownership over it. in other words, please do not take credit for my own poetry.
> 
> .this is a sad piece of work and can be very triggering to those who have dealt with this. please read the tags and read at your own discretion.
> 
> .love cannot always fix mental illnesses/disorders, and I do not support that viewpoint. 
> 
> .this fic is not meant to be a representation of all depression for everyone. people deal with it differently, and all of this is strictly from my own experience, as I've had depression for almost three years now. 
> 
> .the title comes from "[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]" by: e.e. cummings
> 
> .i thank my lovely beta, alyssa, for looking over this and telling me what didn't make sense etc etc. this wasn't brit-pricked, however, and i apologize for that. hopefully, i didn't do too terribly.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this fic, especially the one who provided the prompt. I do hope you enjoy what I took from it. 
> 
> xxxx

_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_This is the way the world ends_  
_Not with a bang but a whimper._

-T. S. Eliot

 

Fascinating things happen to fascinating people. So it seems obvious to Harry that he lacked any sort of fascinating qualities that could separate him from Ordinary to Extraordinary. He just _was_. He wasn’t anything more or less. Just _was._ Just _is._

Maybe Harry should stop thinking.

It’s dark outside, like it always is, but today, it seems darker than most nights Harry is destined to work. It seems dark in mood, dark in light, dark in mind. Harry is thinking nonsense, but he can’t stop.

He doesn’t listen to music while he cleans. He doesn’t listen to anything at all except for his labored breaths that can’t even come out in a rhythm.

When he was little, Harry wanted to be a musician. He wanted to be the owner of a quaint little teashop that people would come spill their secrets into. He wanted to be a fair lawyer who helped people. He wanted to be a teacher and change students’ lives. He never wanted to be working the night shift as a janitor in some art museum. At the same time, however, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Harry works here all year long, and has worked here for three years already. Not many people who work here during the day really know of him, but that’s Okay. That’s okay because Harry doesn’t want anyone to know him, to see him, to realize his worthlessness.

_“You’re not worthless, Harry. In fact, you’re probably one of the only people in my life who is worth anything.”_

Harry clenches the mop and briefly wishes he wasn’t alive, but he pushes forward and the mop cleans up the dirt on the ground as if it was the dirt in his mind.

For three years, Harry would get home at six in the morning and fall asleep.

For three years, Harry doesn’t even remember who he really is.

For three years, Harry realizes all he can do anymore is exist.

He keeps mopping.

 

_Unless you love someone, nothing else makes sense_

-e.e. cummings

 

Harry loves a boy. He loves a boy that’s too good for him and too good for the world. He loves a boy with ocean eyes and soft hands. Harry loves a boy, which is strange, he supposes, considering how he doesn’t even love himself.

His name is Louis, and he’s filled with sunlight and beauty and hot tea. Harry met Louis almost two years ago, in the Summer, when Harry is at his best, when Harry has a chance at himself.

Louis was wild and full of laughter, and Harry never stood a chance with him. Harry still doesn’t stand a chance with him despite Louis’s protests of how he does.

In the beginning, Louis didn’t know anything about the baggage that came with Harry, and Harry didn’t tell him despite the coming months of winter and the arrival of chaos in his mind. He didn’t want Louis to know anything bad about him, and god, he never stood a fucking chance.

And then August was ending, and September beginning, and Harry had been beside Louis, who looked so beautiful in the early light of sunbeams, so he quietly snuck out of bed to leave behind the only boy in his life that made him feel something good.

 

_you’re too sweet,my love,_

_my light,my dreams, yet_

_the bitterness will come soon_

_(my love is everlasting)_

_the hopelessness is ever so near_

_(i’m nothing compared to your light)_

_so it seems, i must leave_

_to allow you to breathe,_

_to live, to discover happiness in a_

_different form of Being._

_sleep well, sleep late,my love,_

_my gloom is to arrive before long,_

_be far away from this_

_wicked mind._

 

Despite Louis’s many tries at contacting him afterwards, Harry manages to ignore him for almost a month.

Harry deserved to feel the misery that came with the leaving. He was sure he would always feel that way. He was sure that nothing good would come again. He was sure that Louis would find someone prettier, someone better, someone more worthwhile than Harry.

Louis, however, found him once again just near the beginning of October, and fell apart on Harry’s doorstep, wondering where he went wrong, and why did Harry leave him? Harry didn’t really understand what love could be until that moment, and he collapsed next to Louis, rushing to explain to him about all the things wrong with him, and Louis just listened.

 _God_ , Louis just listened for the hours that Harry spent ruining his voice, and at the end of it, Louis wanted Harry to know how _in love_ he was with him.

Harry believed him, of course. He knew what Louis looked like when he was lying to him, and it wasn’t that. He knew what Louis looked like when he was happy, and it wasn’t that. He knew who Louis was, but Harry didn’t think Louis knew who Harry was.

They kissed for hours afterwards and explored each other’s bodies and minds together for days, waiting for the inevitable to come no matter how much Harry tried to rebel against it.

 

_I like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite new a thing. Muscles better and nerves more._

-e.e. cummings

 

Louis was so soft underneath him, and Harry leaned down to kiss his pink lips as he sat on him, Louis’s cock stretching him wonderfully. Louis’s hands were gripping at Harry’s pale hips, digging into him.

“You’re so… so beautiful, Harry,” Louis moans out as Harry pushed his body down even farther, wanting to completely forget all the nonsense in his mind and in the world. Harry never believed the compliments that would fly out of beautiful Louis’s mouth, but he never said so. Instead, he would stay quiet and thrust down more, trying his best to please Louis because Louis deserved to be pleased so, so much.

They came only a few seconds apart, and Harry collapsed on him for a brief second, feeling the tufts of the hair on Louis’s chest tickling his cheek, and he smiles, just happy to be near Louis.

Louis shuffled underneath him, so Harry pulled himself off of Louis and lay beside him on the bed, allowing Louis to immediately throw his arm over his waist and bring him closer.

Louis whispered sweet words into Harry’s ear for a while before he fell asleep, snoring ever so quietly.

Harry was thinking about how much good he had to have done in past lives to be able to even _know_ Louis. Harry shivers as Louis’s breaths came out evenly against the nape of his neck, and Harry just wants to cry.

“You’re everything to me, Louis,” Harry whispers against the warm sheets of the bed, and Louis, in response, continues to lightly snore in response.

Harry might kill himself tomorrow.

 

_To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all._

-Oscar Wilde

 

Harry wakes up to a bundle of forget-me-nots on the nightstand next to him, and he smiles sadly. Louis goes to university, unlike Harry, and works in a flower shop that Harry visits at least once a week. He reaches out, and lightly touches the petals of the blue flowers, and sighs, sitting up and stretching.

He stands up and makes his way to the bathroom, and does his best to ignore his reflection in the mirror.

He just saw beautiful; he doesn’t need to see ugly right after.

Harry walks out of the bathroom, and watches snow fall outside from the window, and his heart clenches, wishing Louis were here. He feels his stomach rumble, but Harry’s too afraid of hurting himself that he lies back down.

Everything is loud loud loud and Harry shuts his eyes tightly, hoping for sleep to come.

It doesn’t come, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

He’s sad again, and it’s not like it was a sudden wave of sadness, but more like a gradual increase that never actually goes away. He sighs, pulling the blankets around him tighter, feeling colder than he ever has.

He wishes Louis were here.

He turns onto his side, and bites his lip, letting out a deep breath.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispers to himself. Harry clutches the blankets tighter. “There’s no reason to be sad.”

How many times has he said that, he wonders. How many times has he been in this exact position?

Too many times is the answer to that. A pathetic amount of times.

Harry bites his lip even harder and feels like he shouldn’t even exist on this planet anymore. He wants his mind to die die die. Why can’t he just _die?_

Harry falls asleep after that.

 

_Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard are sweeter._

-John Keats

 

His hand is warm against his face, and Harry tries to close his eyes even tighter, but Louis shushes him.

“I’m right here, darling,” is what Louis says, and it should be enough, it should be enough, but it just _isn’t._ “I’m always going to be here.”

Harry shakes his head, and then again, and once more just to prove his point on how Louis is going to _leave_ him eventually because they all leave, and Louis should be different, he seems different, but he probably isn’t going to be.

He thinks that maybe Louis is crying, and Harry feels like such a worthless piece of shit. He can’t even make his lover happy. All he does is drag Louis down with his pathetic self. He can’t even let him be happy.

Harry tries to tuck his knees even closer to his chest, but when he tries, it hurts, and he just cries more.

Louis’s hand is on him again.

“I wish you would let me love you even in the wintertime, Hazza,” Louis whispers.

Harry can only let out a sob in response.

“I wish you would let me tell you how beautiful and wonderful you are all year long, Hazza,” Louis continues.

Harry is shaking, shivering, collapsing into nothing and everything all at once.

“I wish you would let me be in love with you, my darling.”

Harry shuts his eyes and wishes for it all to go away. He wants it to stop. He wants it to stop. He just wants it all to stop, _god why won’t it stop?_

He feels Louis lean down, and he presses a light kiss on the nape of his neck, his breath a warm constant against Harry. Harry doesn’t say anything. He can’t say a word because if he does Louis would stay. Louis would stay and he would continue to see him for who he actually is, and he doesn’t want that to happen.

Louis leans back, his hand still moving all around his face and his back, and eventually, he stands up.

“I wish you would let me stay, Harry,” is the last thing he says before he walks away, closing the door behind him softly.

Harry’s hand grasps onto the blanket and he cries and cries and cries.

 

_you wish for summer_

_yet,you’re it,_

_you’re the summer in the stars,_

_the summer of the earth,_

_my sweet,sweet summer_

_of my heart_

Harry knows it’s Louis who does it, of course. He just decides never to say anything about it. Louis knows that Harry doesn’t believe he’s worthy to bring someone as beautiful as Louis down during the winter months. He knows that Louis knows that during the winter, they technically aren’t “together”. He knows Louis knows this, and yet he’s somewhere close to happy when he reads the letters from Louis and holds the flowers from him.

Harry finds that he only wakes up in the colder months just so he can later look up what a certain flower means.

Harry also knows that Louis does it for exactly that reason.

Harry adores Louis’s handwriting. It’s a mess, is what it is, but Harry will never get tired of reading the scrawny words that are poetic in just it’s nature. He never gets tired of the little smiles that Louis is sometimes able to pull out of him with just the wit of his words. He will never get tired of Louis, and he’s terrified of the day that Louis is going to become tired of him.

Maybe that’s why he treasures their moments so much.

Louis is like the stars. No matter how much Harry thinks about it, or how much Harry hopes to be with them, he’s never actually going to be able to.

Today, the letter wasn’t long. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t anything really, it would seem to others, but it was everything to Harry.

 

**_I’m happy you’re able to read this, and I hope you will never stop. Breathe, my love. You deserve everything you think you don’t. xxxx_ **

 

A single hibiscus lay on the note, and Harry quickly typed it into his phone. He drew a breath, and sighed, leaning against the wall of the museum in his own present anticipation.

‘Delicate beauty.’

More like shattering ugly.

Maybe he should rid himself of Louis.

(He could never do that.)

 

_let’s live suddenly without thinking_

-e. e. cummings

 

Harry is dancing, and he truly believes that maybe one day, everything will be okay. Louis is here, somewhere, he doesn’t actually know, considering not even Louis knows he is here. He’s in the back, the very back of the audience, and he waits with a small smile on his face.

A girl had asked him his name, and he told her that he didn’t know if he believed in himself and left for a seat.

He’s sitting next to nobody, which he prefers, and he briefly wonders if Louis is pacing nervously behind those curtains Harry is currently facing. He wonders if Louis wishes he were here.

Harry brings his hands up and reaches for the ceiling, feeling like he’ll just topple over and fall and fall and fall, but it might just be okay after all.

He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, but he figures that wouldn’t be much appreciated in a place like this. A place like this filled with proud parents and students who have a small clue on what they want to do with their lives. A place like this that Harry doesn’t belong, but was willing to visit because Louis is performing tonight.

The lights start to dim, and the audience takes a few long pauses before it goes completely silent.

Harry can’t move as he watches the curtains pull away and there is Louis. There is Louis with a spotlight on him because that’s what he deserves. There is Louis, and Harry hasn’t seen him in nearly a month, but he’s continued to read the letters he leaves every single night.

Harry wants to feel his mouth against his again, but he wants to be happier more.

Louis speaks then, loud and clear, his voice reverberating throughout the theatre. Harry leans forward, already enraptured.

Louis moves across the stage delicately and surely, and Harry’s eyes can only follow him, follow his movements, follow his words.

Harry can’t break his gaze from him.

Harry is dancing, and there is Louis, dancing with him, and Harry thinks that maybe things could be okay.

Harry is dancing, and then Louis isn’t anymore, and Harry realizes how cold it is in the theatre for the first time that night, and stands up, and leaves.

The last thing he sees is Louis’s surprised gaze on him before he turns around, and exits the theatre before the opening was even finished.

Besides that, it was nothing of importance.

Harry can’t dance anyway.

 

_do not sway_

_from the heat of this moment,for_

_my dreams,my love,this fire,_

_is able to overcome,_

_any melancholy perception_

_of love it is that you_

_hold in your arms,your heart,_

_your soul._

They come without rhythm. The knocks. The only rhythm to it is the pattern of it all, and the way it slowly crescendos into something close to frantic.

“Harry… please open the door,” Louis finally says, allowing his knocks to come to a halt. Harry is sitting on his couch, knees drawn up, and he doesn’t say a single fucking thing. “Harry, _please_.”

No no no no no.

“Harry, you were there. I saw you. What were you doing there? Did you want to speak to me?”

Harry wants to tell him that he always wants to speak to him, but at the same time, he doesn’t think he should ever speak to Louis again. Louis is dangerous. Louis is everything Harry can’t embrace about himself. Louis is who Harry loves so, so much, and Harry doesn’t know if he’s able to allow himself to break all over again.

Louis gives another knock, a lone one, and Harry listens as closely as he can from where he’s seated.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Harry.”

Harry recoils immediately, and he feels his heart fucking shatter over and over again, and he thinks that maybe the sun has exploded because he knew it was going to come one day, but he never knew how he was going to deal with it.

Louis is tired of him.

Harry hears Louis place his hand on the door, and he hears when Louis turns around and walks away, his footsteps eventually disappearing into nothing at all.

Harry isn’t sure if he’s crying because he can’t actually comprehend anything.

And then Harry is angry. He’s angry at himself for allowing Louis to come into his life. He’s angry at Louis for saying something so true. He’s angry at every damn fool who believes that love is a good thing.

Harry bites his lip and then screams.

 

_what is stronger_

_than the human heart_

_which shatters over and over_

_and still lives_

-rupi kaur

 

January was a blizzard of nothing at all extraordinary, and February came with a present in the mail from a friend he hasn’t spoken to in three years and a bouquet of flowers with a letter that could spread out to be the length of Harry’s body.

Harry thought he should maybe thank the friend he hasn’t spoken to in three years, and he didn’t read the letter or water the flowers.

Harry thought back to when he was sixteen. He thought back to when he woke up to his sister screaming at him “Happy birthday” and his mother already beginning to sing the opening lines as she walked in with a cake. He thought back to when the time last year in which Louis opened him up in the morning, and told him he was sweeter than any other thing he had tasted. He thought back to the way Louis tried his best to make him smile that day and every other day, and he could only stare at his floor in shock as he felt pain wrack through his heart, his lungs, his very blood of being.

None of it exists anymore, and it’s all Harry’s fault.

He was Nothing.

The days after passed by so quickly and Harry found himself in a happier state of mind, and yet, he still wasn’t back to being himself.

Harry is in a park and it’s late February, and there is a family of four playing together in the muddy snow, and while Harry observes them, he feels the harsh wind bite at his skin.

Harry deserves it.

He misses his mum, he misses his sister, he misses Louis, but most of all, he misses himself.

He just kicks at the snow and thinks that the world should be on fire instead.

God, what a fucking lunatic.

 

_In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on._

-Robert Frost

 

It’s near the end of March when Harry unconsciously decides to stop being sad. It’s never a Big Realization. It hasn’t been for the past three years, but it’s always a moment of pure relief.

It’s near the end of March when Harry picks up his phone for the first time in months, and dials Louis’s number, who picks up right away with a “for now?” as the first thing he says.

It’s near the end of March when Harry thinks back on his winter months and realizes how much life he missed again and why was he so sad when life lives in the past and he lives in the present?

It’s near the end of March when Harry meets up with Louis again in his flower shop and Louis collapses against Harry in a hug that speaks for everything they didn’t say to each other. They talk for hours, and Harry flirts with him, and Louis flirts right back.

They end up at Harry’s house that night, and Louis presses him down into the mattress with months of holding back and months and months of sadness.

Harry wishes he was a better person for Louis.

It’s near the end of March when Harry and Louis become HarryandLouis once again, with them going out on dates to ice cream shops and antique stores (to satisfy Harry’s hipster needs, as Louis likes to call it).

It’s near the end of March when Harry realizes that he actually isn’t happy again, and it goes to fucking shit.

 

_If a thing loves, it is infinite._

-William Blake

 

“I love you,” Louis whispers into his mouth, the words spilling in softly, caressing every part of Harry’s being. Harry shivers against him, and Louis places his forehead against his. “I love you so fucking much, Harry.”

“Why?” Harry breathes out, not understanding, and maybe not even believing. Louis gives a sad smile, and pulls back after pressing another soft kiss against Harry.

“How could I not, love? How could I not? Fuck.”

Louis leans back completely, untangling himself from the mess of Harry’s arms, and sits on the bed, naked and cross-legged. He studies Harry for a long moment, and Harry doesn’t know what to do.

He doesn’t know if he should open up more or close himself off forever. He’s breakable. He’s vulnerable. He’s too fragile, and it scares Harry that Louis could break him completely apart if he so wished.

“That’s not an answer, babe,” Harry whispers, and Louis purses his lips.

“Love, if I was going to actually answer that question, we’d never leave this bed,” is what Louis says in response, and Harry has to close his eyes when hearing that.

He doesn’t deserve to feel like this. He doesn’t deserve Louis. Louis needs someone better, someone who’s in much better shape than him, someone who isn’t fucking broken.

“Please don’t lie to me,” Harry says, falling back onto the pillow, eyes still tightly shut. He feels Louis move closer to him, and Louis’s hand is on his chest, while his other strokes softly at his lips.

“You know you’re the only person I don’t ever lie to, Hazza. I wish you would believe me one day. I wish you would tell me things. I wish you would tell me how you aren’t happy now like you usually are. I wish you would let me hold your hand and tell you how lovely you are without you pulling back and saying that I shouldn’t say stupid things. I wish for so much, Harry, fucking hell, but you’re what I have now, and that’s all I even need.”

Harry’s crying. He doesn’t know when he started, or if he ever stopped crying in the first place, he just knows that sobs are wracking through his body, and Louis is leaning across him, his hands warm everywhere, calm and soothing.

“It’s okay to be sad, Harry.”

Harry cries harder.

The world is fucking chaos.

 

 _From childhood's hour I have not been_  
_As others were; I have not seen_  
_As others saw; I could not bring_  
_My passions from a common spring._  
_From the same source I have not taken_  
_My sorrow; I could not awaken_  
_My heart to joy at the same tone;_  
_And all I loved, I loved alone._  
_Then- in my childhood, in the dawn_  
_Of a most stormy life- was drawn_  
_From every depth of good and ill_  
_The mystery which binds me still:_  
_From the torrent, or the fountain,_  
_From the red cliff of the mountain,_  
_From the sun that round me rolled_  
_In its autumn tint of gold,_  
_From the lightning in the sky_  
_As it passed me flying by,_  
_From the thunder and the storm,_  
_And the cloud that took the form_  
_(When the rest of Heaven was blue)_  
_Of a demon in my view._

-Edgar Allan Poe

 

“I miss them,” Harry allows himself to say, and Louis freezes beside him. They’re in bed, fully clothed and barely touching, but closer than ever nonetheless.

“Your mum and sister?”

Harry nods. “Yeah. I miss them all the time, Lou.”

Louis lets out a small gasp, and turns to face Harry, his hands tucking underneath his chin as he observes Harry with his beautiful, clear blue eyes. “I know you miss them, Hazza. I know.”

Harry bites his lip, and nods again, trying to think about what he’s going to say next. It’s not as if Louis doesn’t know this, but sometimes Harry is worried Louis forgets the reason he’s so sad in the winter.

“I wish they were still here, Louis.” Louis just continues to gaze at him, and even though he says nothing, his eyes urge him to continue. “It’s just… I think about them so often, and I just wish they were still here. I wish I could at least just fucking hug them again. I want to just _hold_ them. But… but I can’t. I can’t, and it _hurts_.”

“I wish you could hold them again as well, babe,” Louis says quietly, and Harry nods again, fierce and determined, as he tries his best not to cry. He is so fucking tired of crying.

“Yeah,” he breathes, turning to face Louis as well before reaching out and having Louis wrap his arms around him. Louis is smaller than him, technically, but Harry never ceases to get tired of being held by Louis’s strong arms.

Louis is just so wonderful, and fuck does Harry want to be happier for him.

(He knows it’s not easy, but he can still wish it were.)

“I love you, Louis,” Harry states, trying his best to calm himself down before he has another panic attack. Louis is warm, and that’s all that really matters right now. Louis grips onto him even tighter, and he can feel Louis nuzzle down against the top of Harry’s head, no doubt curls getting into Louis’s mouth.

“I love you, too,” he says.

Harry doesn’t ever want him to let go.

 

_my mother once told me_

_to write what i feel (if, of course,_

_i ever felt so inclined to take_

_a pen and put it to paper)_

_yet i—_

_i am afraid of the words i_

_write, for i fear, they are just_

_too delicately sad_

_(especially for someone of my nature)_

Harry wakes up to flowers. They’re everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, spread across the bed, in vases all around him, scattered about on the wooden floor, on the nightstand next to him, on the doors of the closet and bathroom. They all radiate different colors, and it’s all a mix of such beauty and such wonder that Harry can’t even move.

Louis isn’t there, or at least he isn’t in the room, but Harry is too shocked to look for him, or call out his name.

Harry picks up the flower closest to him, a red Chrysanthemum. He’s reaching for his phone to look up the meaning when the door opens to reveal Louis in sweatpants and a fond smile on his face.

Harry’s heart stops.

“It means ‘sharing’ that one does,” Louis informs him, walking towards him assuredly. Harry glances down at the flower, brushing the tips of his fingers against the smooth petals.

Louis leans down and picks another one up, a pretty yellow flower that Harry thinks looks vaguely familiar. “This one is an iris. It’s a yellow one.” He glances at Harry. “It can mean passion. Or inspiration. Whatever, really, you’re both to me.”

Harry’s world is on fire, and he knows Louis is doing this to inspire happiness in him, but Harry still wants to kill himself, but he wants to kiss Louis more.

Louis walks closer to him, finally inching himself down onto the bed before he pulls Harry into a hug, his hands a soft pressure on his back.

“You’re my entire world, Harry,” Louis adds, and Harry goes lax in his arms. Louis pulls back, looking around for a moment before apparently spotting what he wanted. He stands up and reaches down beside the bed to grab the flower.

He brings it into sight, and yes, Harry knows what this one means.

“I still think this one represents who you are to me, Harry Styles. I gave them to you on our first date, and I still haven’t found one that represents my feelings for you more. You’re warmth, Harry. And I adore you, and I love you so, so much. You make me so happy, Harry, which you probably don’t believe because of the unfortunate situation you’re having to deal with now, but you really do. You make me so fucking happy, Harry, and I’m just… I’m happy I met you. So I’m giving you this flower again because I want you to be happy enough for you to be happy with yourself, and I want to show you how happy you make me.”

Harry watches, wide-eyed, as Louis hands him the flower, it’s yellow petals shining brightly back at him. Louis gives him a sad smile, and Harry just grasps onto the flower tighter.

“Thank you, Lou,” Harry starts to say, but he’s cut off by his own choked sobbing, and he grasps onto the flower so fucking tightly. He shakes his head, disappointed in himself for crying pathetically during a beautiful moment like this, and keeps his head down, too ashamed to see the look that’s probably on Louis’s face. “I-I’m so s-sorry, Louis. Fuck. I don’t mean to cry so much I’m so—”

Louis’s kissing him, and it’s so sweet, and it’s so nice, and it’s so lovely, and Harry can’t let go of the flower between them, and he’s still crying god will he ever stop, and he loves Louis so, so much. He’s starting to panic, he knows, his breaths coming out shorter and increasing with intensity as he becomes absolutely terrified of himself, fuck, why is he so terrified.

He’s still holding onto the flower though, and that has to maybe mean something.

“Shhh, shhh, babe, you’re okay. You’re okay, love,” Louis says, his soothing words caressing Harry’s skin as he continues to scream in tears and silence.

He can’t let go he can’t let go he can’t _allow_ himself to let go.

Louis’s crying, Harry can tell by the way he’s shaking against him, but not doing anything about it. Harry can tell by the way Louis sniffles every few seconds, and takes a deep breath to calm himself down because he has to be there for Louis first. Harry can tell because Louis is in love with him, and Harry is in love with Louis.

“It’s so _hard_ , Louis. Just _waking up_ ,” Harry chokes out, and Louis holds him even tighter.

“I know, love. I know I know I know,” Louis cries softly, holding onto Harry so tightly.

Harry finally lets go of the sunflower and buries himself completely into Louis.

(His world is screaming at him to be happy.

            He’s screaming back that he can’t.)

 

_I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees._

-Pablo Neruda

 

“Be inside of me, Harry,” Louis pants against Harry’s ear, and Harry nods frantically, leaning down over him as he allows his senses to completely overtake him. Louis lets out little gasps every now and then as Harry leans down and presses a finger inside of Louis. Louis shakes and Harry presses down on his mouth with his own, letting his tongue push inside of him the same time he adds another finger, speeding up.

Harry has Louis trapped underneath him, and it gives Harry a sense of control, something he hasn’t felt in such a long time, and he knows that Louis is doing this for him, and he could never love anyone more, he thinks.

“Breathtaking,” Louis whispers against his lips, and Harry thinks the same of Louis.

“You are,” Harry responds as he pulls back, and dips down, pulling the two fingers out of him.

Every single part of Louis is beautiful, and his body is just the representation of the soul within when it comes down to Louis. Louis is open for him, open and ready, and so, so wet, and Harry leans forward to lightly press a kiss against his hole.

Louis immediately jerks forward, moaning softly, while one of his hands reaches down and grasps wildly at Harry’s curls. Harry allows him to hold on as he dives back in, pressing his tongue to softly kitten-lick at Louis, and Louis is _writhing_ against him. Harry presses a finger alongside with his tongue, and then two more before Louis can even react to the first one. Louis is sobbing, his legs spreading open even wider, and Harry finally gives in and pulls back, quickly lubing up his cock.

The slide in is quick and slow and Harry feels like he’s burning. Louis is grasping onto his hand and his hips tightly, and gives a low moan when Harry finally bottoms out.

They don’t say anything after that, the only sound being their bodies coming together and the short huffs of breath and moans they give.

It’s everything to Harry.

Louis comes first, his whole body tensing up as he shouts Harry’s name into the air, and Harry comes right after him, his body stilling as he jerks forward, feeling motionless in being.

Harry pulls out slowly and lies down beside Louis, curling into his chest like always.

They don’t clean up, and they don’t stay awake long enough to care.

 

_Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen._

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

“ _FUCK YOU!”_ The words bounce of the walls and hit him right back, but Harry can’t care. “ _LET ME BE HAPPY!”_ The words disappear into the ocean of the sky, but Harry can still see them. _“I MISS MYSELF!”_ The words don’t do shit, and Harry sits there on the ground, heart beating quickly, rapidly, frantically waiting for something else to happen.

“I miss myself,” he repeats softly, digging his knees into the ground before collapsing backwards, feeling pain shoot up his back to his head as it makes contact with the ground below him.

The last thing he thinks before his eyes shut is that maybe this is who he is now, and maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

 

_You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming._

-Pablo Neruda

 

Tonight was a warm night, a slight humidity following close behind. His grasp on the mop is there, it’s there, but he doesn’t even have to think about much anymore while he cleans.

It’s almost twelve in the morning, and Louis will be picking him up soon. He doesn’t know why. Louis has been especially reluctant to let go of Harry recently. He probably worries that Harry won’t come back one day.

(Harry’s tried that before. He had been on the bus for a total of three minutes before he basically leapt off of it, rushing to meet Louis.)

Not as many people are visiting recently, Harry determines by the less amount of trash in the museum. Or maybe people are cleaner this spring.

Another two hours go by, and Harry’s about to be off. He puts up the mop, the broom, all the things he can use to pick up other people’s messes, but never his own, away.

Harry waits outside, and it’s a little colder, but the humidity makes it seem warm. Finally, he sees the headlights of Louis’s car, and he quickly rushes over, sliding into the passenger seat.

Louis smiles at him, sleep obviously behind his eyelids, but leans forward to press a light kiss against his mouth nonetheless.

Harry is in love with him.

“Good night?” Louis asks, reaching to grab his hand, and driving forward with the other.

“The usual,” Harry replies, squeezing his hand back.

Louis sends him another smile. “That’s good, right?”

Harry nods, looking out the window, faintly seeing both his and Louis’s reflection in the glass, but mainly he sees the flowers shining in the night, and the trees turning green again.

Springtime is lovely.

He turns his attention back to Louis, who’s humming something softly, and Harry sees a few scratches on his arms.

“What happened?” he asks, gesturing to the very scratches. Louis briefly glances down at them and shakes his head, embarrassed.

“I fell today at work and a bunch of roses with scary thorns fell on me. It was brutal, it was,” Louis sighs dramatically.

Harry laughs, heat rising to his cheeks. “I’m sure it was the worst.”

Louis nods solemnly. “It really was.”

Silence falls between them after that, and Louis squeezes his hand again.

God, it’s just so fucking nice with Louis.

Louis is lovely.

And maybe he should finally allow himself to be with him.

Harry’s coming smile is brilliant, and it’s not as if that night was an Extraordinary night. It’s not as if that night made it all better.

To Harry, it was just another night, but it was another night in which he was alive and would get to look up dumb flower meanings and kiss Louis, and even though there was that sadness that would seem to immensely flood him at times, it got to the point where he learned how to swim.

So all Harry can really do is just squeeze back harder.

            (And Louis looks at him then, a grin taking over upon seeing Harry’s smile, and love bursting like a firework in the sky, and he nods, pleased to see that Harry is still there, and will continue to be there.)

(Harry may not think he’s fascinating, but Louis does, and sometimes, it was better to just _be_.)

 

_my sweet,my love,_

_my sunflower of drunk,_

_do not allow the supposed future_

_& the ill-starred past_

_ruin the present in which_

_you are alive._

 

**Author's Note:**

> much love  
> xxxxx


End file.
